


He Is In Chains

by episkie



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, i'm reading a crime novel and its affecting me, kinda angsty, post AOU, probably will ignore a lot of aou stuff that lets face it didnt really happen anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-04-20 22:04:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4803890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/episkie/pseuds/episkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People are dying, but that's nothing new. Bucky's God-knows-where, but that's old news too. In fact, everything that Steve is supposed to be maintaining seems to be falling apart. He'll figure his life out eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WOW! I have not written a fic in like 5,000 years and definitely never on AO3 so sorry if this thing is a mess. I've only been reading stuff on this site for months and I still don't know the status quo for tagging and things like that so bear with me on that one. Hope you like it!

“Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.” – Jean-Jacques Rousseau

The statement to the police read something like this:

It was 3:02 AM, but pleasantly warm, the summer day’s heat trapped in the concrete and glass of downtown Manhattan. Rebecca Hall, 23, was walking home alone from a party. It was only a few blocks to her apartment complex, and she was drunk enough that she felt no need to call for a taxi or ask someone to walk her home.  
The ground was awash with yellow light from the streetlamps, but she tripped over an irregularity in the sidewalk anyway and bumped against the side of a building. Her intoxicated mind found this to be hilarious, and she burst into laughter, doubling over with the force of it. This fit lasted about half a minute. After it was over, she straightened, still smiling and breathing heavily, and took a step forward.

A body thudded to the ground at her feet. Rebecca Hall shrieked and jumped back, no longer smiling. She looked up instinctively and saw nothing but a black blur against the dim night sky, disappearing behind the edge of a roof. She looked down again. The body on the pavement wasn’t moving, but blood was beginning to pool beneath it. She took a shuddering breath and nudged it with a foot.

“A – are you okay?” she stammered.

There was no response.  
Rebecca Hall called the police.

 

“Remind me again what’s so important about this girl?” Sam asked from the backseat of the car.

“Nothing,” Natasha replied, flicking on her turn signal. “It’s what she saw that could be important. The police report was annoyingly incomplete.”

“So you disappear for months, you don’t call, you don’t write…”

“You think Bucky had something to do with this?” Steve cut in.

“I can’t be sure,” she admitted. “What I do know is that the vic’s name was William Handler, but his mother’s maiden name was Laura Zola. He’s the fourth person this month to die of unsavory causes with a HYDRA connection of that nature.”

“And what nature is that exactly?” Sam said.

“I can’t prove that any of them were HYDRA members themselves,” she explained. “But the family ties are there. All the victims were descendants of scientists who worked on Barnes’ case.”

Steve frowned. He’d hoped that, since the whole Ultron incident, his own increased publicity would help bring Bucky out of the woodwork. Maybe it was stupid, but he’d somehow thought that the fact that Steve’s face was on TV every other minute would jog Bucky’s memory. Or something.

Murdering people who were potentially innocent wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind.

They found the woman’s apartment building fairly easily, but New York being New York, were forced to drive around another ten minutes to find a parking spot. Sam and Natasha spent the entire time bantering as if they know each other a lot better than they actually do, while Steve stared out the window and wondered if Bucky had been here. If he’d stood on one of these rooftops and broken a man’s neck, this time of his own free will. If that man had deserved it.

They all pitched in to pay for a ridiculously overpriced hour of parking, then trudged through the midafternoon heat towards Rebecca Hall’s building. Natasha led them to the elevator and pressed the button for the eighth floor.

“Listen, I brought you guys here because this business with Barnes is ‘your thing’, but I think you should let me do the talking,” she said.

Steve frowned. “Nat, if you think that I’m going to mess up my chances of – well, mess all of this up by saying the wrong thing - ” 

“That’s actually exactly what I think you’re going to do,” there was a pinging sound and the elevator doors slid open. “It’s called confirmation bias and it’s what we need to avoid. You have to remember that this probably wasn’t Barnes. Just like every other lead we’ve had definitely wasn’t him.”

“I resent that,” said Sam. “That warehouse in Kentucky had brainwashed super assassin written all over it.”

They stopped in front of door 815 and Natasha gave them each a look before rapping sharply on the door twice.

For a long moment there was no answer. Natasha knocked again, and a soft voice from inside croaked, “coming!”

A young woman opened the door, wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt and no makeup. Her hair was on the greasy side and she looked like she hadn’t slept in days.  
“Rebecca,” Natasha said warmly (not a word Steve would normally associate with her). She held out her hand. “I’m Natalie. We spoke on the phone? These are my associates, Tom and Gilbert.”

“Right, right, yeah, come in,” Rebecca stepped aside to allow them in. Sam and Steve had a low-key but heated argument with their eyes over which one of them had to be Gilbert, which was resolved when they arrived at a couch and Natasha grabbed Sam’s arm, crooning, “sit down, Gilly!”

Rebecca cleared her throat and sniffed. “I, uh, my roommate isn’t here so it’s just us. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Water would be wonderful, thank you, Rebecca,” Natasha said sweetly (another word Steve didn’t like to pair her with).

As Rebecca slumped into the kitchen to get them glasses of water, Sam stomped on Natasha’s foot sharply. “Gilbert? Do I look like I eat paste?”

“What’s with the fake names?” Steve frowned. “Don’t you think she’ll recognize us? I hate to break it to you, Nat, but you’re not exactly a secret agent anymore.”

“She won’t recognize us,” Natasha sunk back into the cushions and crossed her arms. “She’s clearly in a depressed haze. A pretty normal reaction when you’ve experience something traumatic like, say, having someone murdered in front of you.”

“Good thing we’re not normal…” Sam grumbled.

At that moment Rebecca returned, carefully balancing four glasses of tap water. She set them down on the table.

“Thank you very much, Rebecca,” Steve said as kindly as he could. Now that Natasha had mentioned it, the poor girl did look kind of… dazed.

“So you’re really FBI?” Rebecca asked. Natasha nodded and pulled out a fake badge.

“That is so illegal,” Sam mouthed behind her back. Steve just shook his head.

“Wow,” Rebecca seemed momentarily energized in the presence of someone as cool as an FBI agent. “I mean, I, um, already answered all the questions the cops had…”

“I know, and you did a good job. We’re just a little concerned that local police might not have been asking you the right things,” it was a little creepy how trustworthy Natasha could make herself seem, when she tried. “Could you go over your story one more time? It’s just procedure.”

Rebecca winced. “Um, sure. I was walking home, at night, from a party. I’d had a little to drink but I wasn’t wasted or anything. The party was at a friend’s apartment and her building is only a few blocks away, so I thought it would be no big deal if I just walked. And then… bam. There was a dead guy in front of me.”

“Were you immediately aware that he was dead? Was he actually dead, or did he die between the time that he hit the ground and the police arriving?”

“Well, I kind of… nudged him, with my foot. I couldn’t tell you for sure, but they said his neck was broken. There was a lot of blood. Plus, you know, he was thrown off of a building…” Rebecca trailed off and started playing with her cuticles.

“I’m sorry to make you relive this, Rebecca. I know how terrible it must have been,” Natasha reached out and placed a hand on Rebecca’s, who smiled a little.

“It’s just so terrible. That poor man. Who would do something like that?”

“You said in your statement to the police that you saw someone on the roof. Could you describe again what you saw?” Natasha continued.

“I mean, not much. It was just, you know, a shape,” Rebecca began to fidget and rubbed her eye.

“Could you pick anything out of this shape? A head, perhaps? Or an arm?”

Steve frowned.

“I couldn’t pick anyone out of a lineup, if that’s what you’re asking,” Rebecca pulled her remaining hand out from under Natasha’s.

“It doesn’t have to be anything specific. If you say all you saw was a black blob, we believe you,” Sam said with his counselor voice on. Natasha nodded encouragingly.

“I mean… I…” Rebecca looked like she was struggling now. She buried her face in her hands. “I really didn’t see who it was. I mean, it was dark and they were far away. It was like, a dark shadow. There was a kind of glint of something, I guess. Like, I don’t know. A knife, maybe? Or just a belt buckle?”

Or a metal arm. Steve bit his tongue.

“What about your other senses? Could you smell anything, hear anything out of the ordinary?” Natasha pressed.

“I, ah… I remember the smell of metal. I think it was,” she swallowed and paled. “I think it was his blood, though.”

“So you heard nothing? You didn’t hear the sound of a struggle, or of the victim’s neck being broken before he was dropped from the building?”

“Um, no. I was a little… distracted.”

“And why was that?” Natasha asked.

“I, uh, tripped over the sidewalk,” this time Rebecca flushed. Natasha arched an eyebrow. “I told you I was kind of drunk! For some reason it was very funny to me. At the time. Anyway, I thought his neck was broken in the fall?”

“So you heard nothing,” Natasha moved on, ignoring the question. “You saw a flash of something and smelled something metallic. Is it possible that what you smelled was the alleged metal you saw?”

“Uh… I don’t think so… I mean, like I said, the, uh, perpetrator was pretty far up…”

“Hm…” Natasha weaved her fingers together thoughtfully and the room fell silent for several long moments. Finally, she broke the silence. “Well, thank you Rebecca. You’ve been very helpful.”

The three of them stood up. Rebecca followed, looking confused. “That’s it?”

“Yes, that’s it. We’ll get out of your hair now,” Natasha was smiling. It was still a soft smile, but there was definitely a scary undertone to it this time.

“Oh, uh, well…”

“We’ll be in contact if we have any more questions,” Sam added.

“Thanks again for the water,” Steve repeated weakly.

They filed out the door, leaving poor Rebecca looking very confused in her apartment.

“Well that was a bust,” Sam said as they walked back to the car.

“I’d say the opposite, actually!” Natasha looked positively chipper. It was unnerving.

“The glint that she saw,” Steve frowned. “Do you think…?”

“It’s possible,” Natasha shrugged. “The confirmation that she didn’t hear the victim’s neck being snapped that interests me, too.”

“Couldn’t it have been broken in the fall, like she said?” Steve said.

“Autopsy confirmed that it wasn’t.”

“So what?”

“Well, the victim’s head was turned almost completely around. As a superhero, you know that that takes a little more strength than it seems to in the movies. It’s also a very distinctive, cutting sound. If Rebecca didn’t hear it, then it probably wasn’t done on that rooftop. Which tells us that the victim was killed in a separate location, before, his body was dumped off the roof. So the… culprit was strong enough to snap 204-pound William Handler’s neck, carry him to the roof, and pitch him off the side. Like, far off of the side. There was a four and half foot ledge on the roof, and the body landed six feet from the side of the building. Now, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Plenty of people go to the gym. But adding in the strange glinting she saw…”

“So you do think it was Bucky!” they’d arrived at the car by now, and it was all Steve can do not to pound on the hood triumphantly.

“I’d say it pushes the chances of it being him up from fifty percent to maybe sixty five,” Natasha said graciously, and unlocked the car doors.

“So what about the metallic smell?” Sam asked as they clambered inside.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s anything. Just the blood. I just wanted to ask another question to add a legitimate to our illegal representation of federal agents.”

“By, the way, Gilbert?”

“You do look a little bit like you ate paste,” Steve said. “As a kid. Like, you stopped, but you used to eat paste.”

“I hate you people,” Sam groaned. “Anyway, how does all of this help us? So maybe Barnes killed this guy. So what? It was two days ago. He didn’t leave a trail. He could be anywhere by now.”

“Looking at the patterns of whose been killed so far, I think I can predict who might be next,” Natasha explained. “All four vics have been over thirty. Directly descended from the main baddies on Barnes’ case way back when. And all have backgrounds or jobs in STEM fields. If there’s a chance Barnes is killing them, and there’s a chance we can intercept him, then…”

“It’s worth a try,” Steve said firmly. “How many potential next victims have you narrowed your list down to?”

“Six. I’m taking us back to Stark tower now, we’re meeting up with Wanda there. She’ll be shadowing one of them. I’ve already got Clint and his little sidekick Kate taking another two. The three of us will take the rest.”

“Aren’t I supposed to be the boss?” Steve joked.

“Hey, I’m just trying to move this little operation along,” Natasha said, but she smiled at him and elbowed his arm playfully. She sobered up, though, and frowned. “Steve. I don’t want you to get your hopes up. Barnes clearly doesn’t want us to find him. If he’s really the one taking these guys out, he’s either changed his mind or he’s majorly slipping. I’m not really sure either of those options are likely.”

“I know,” Steve said, and stared down at his hands.

He knew that Bucky didn’t seem to want anything to do with him. At first, he hadn’t been worried. It had almost made sense. Why wouldn’t he want some time to himself, to figure things out? But as time wore on, he became more and more worried. If Bucky really remembered him that day on the helicarrier, when he saved Steve’s life, shouldn’t he have come around by now? Shouldn’t he have realized that Steve couldn’t live like this, knowing that his best friend was out there somewhere, maybe hurt, definitely lost and alone?

There had to be a reason for it. He didn’t want to think of the fact that maybe Bucky never remembered him in the first place, that it had all just been a fluke. That Bucky might never remember, might never come back, and Steve wasn’t sure if he could handle himself if that were the case.

They pulled into the garage under Stark’s tower – technically the Avengers tower, those days, even if Tony claimed he was done with that sort of thing – and found Wanda already waiting for them.

“How’d it go?” she asked without preamble.

“Have you been waiting down here this entire time?” Natasha raised an eyebrow.

“Stark and I still don’t… mesh,” Wanda said uncomfortably.

“It’s okay, Stark doesn’t really mesh with anyone,” Steve said. “I mean, as long as you don’t still want to, you know, kill him.”

“Sometimes I want to kill him,” Sam said helpfully.

Wanda scowled. “I can control myself, you know. I’m not some stupid child.”

“Well, regardless of Stark’s shortcomings, we still need to use his private jet,” Natasha said.

The elevator doors opened before they reached the button and a still-unfamiliar female voice rang out through the garage’s speakers.

“Welcome to the tower,” said Friday. “Mr. Stark is expecting you.”

“Thanks, Friday,” Steve said, nodding, even though he wasn’t sure if she could see him, or if AIs could even really see.

Tony was on the phone when they arrived in the penthouse, shouting angrily into the receiver and waving his free hand around. He paused to wave when he sees them came in.

“Okay, you know what, I have shit to do, so if you ever decide to return to the land of the sane, call me back at a more convenient time,” he stopped for a second, and then adds, “dick!”

He threw the phone on the counter sharply.

“Are we interrupting anything… important?” Steve asked.

“Bruce,” Tony scowled. “He’s in Bangladesh. Or something. With no plans of coming back any time soon.”

Natasha shifted uncomfortably and Steve frowned. He wasn’t surprised that Tony was still in touch with Bruce, even if he’d been incommunicado with everyone else. Those two were like two dysfunctional peas in a messed up pod. Secretly Steve had hoped that Tony would be able to talk some sense into Bruce sooner rather than later, but no one had seen him in months. Bruce’s absence ate into Steve like a caterpillar does a leaf – yet another person he was supposed to be taking care of, out of his reach.

“Anyway, what can I do you for?” Tony asked, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand. He looked tired, strung out. His skin was paler than usual despite the summer sun, as if he hadn’t gone outdoors in a while, and his shirt – which referenced something Steve had never heard of – had some sort of stain in the corner.

“Plane,” Natasha said.

“Oh yeah,” Tony ran a hand through his hair. “Uh, to be completely honest, I kind of totally forgot about that…”

“There is a helicopter on the roof waiting to take you to the airstrip,” Friday interrupted.

“Uh, what?” Tony straightened. “Did I ask you to have that much self-awareness? Because I don’t remember that conversation.”

“Ms. Potts ordered it immediately after you got off the phone with Ms. Romanoff.”

“Of course,” he shook his head.

“Don’t you think taking a helicopter to the airport is a little overkill?” Sam said, looking bemused.

“Plane’s not at the airport,” Tony explained gruffly. “I had to move it somewhere more private, and I don’t want that undone so you people can run around playing Hardy Boys.”

“Don’t forget the Eastern European Nancy Drew wannabes,” Natasha added.

“What’s the matter with the airport?” Steve interjected.

Tony stared at him for a second. “I hate to break it to you, but I’m not exactly the most popular person right now, Cap. I’m trying to avoid showing my face in public until this whole thing blows over. Or until I’m arrested, either way.”

“Tony, no one blames you for what Ultron did. It was out of your control - ”

Tony barked out a laugh. “That’s not the tune you were singing while it was going down.”

“I was caught up in the whole… event,” Steve admitted. “But any fool can see that you were acting in what you thought was the world’s best interests, and obviously you didn’t plan on things… escalating like that.”

“Yeah, well, they did,” Tony said bitterly. “They escalated, and people died. Maybe you can selectively ignore that fact, but no one else is having much luck on that front.”

Steve sighed. Wanda was standing off to the side. Her arms were crossed but Steve knew that if he could see her hands they would be white-knuckled. Her entire body was tense and she was pointedly not looking anywhere in Tony’s direction. Sam looked uncomfortable and Natasha was shooting him a look which said, ‘get us out of this conversation right now please’. Steve sighed again.

“Listen, Tony. Thank you for letting us use your helicopter and your private jet,” he said. “I’ll admit that I don’t know much about the modern legal system, or, or public relations or anything, but…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony sat down on one of his modern-looking, fancy couches. “Go find your boyfriend. If there’s anything you can do to help me I’ll have Pepper’s people call your people.” 

“Awesome,” Natasha chirped, and grabbed both Sam’s and Steve’s arms, dragging them back towards the elevator. “You’re the best, Stark. Keep doing you.”

“Suck my dick, Rushman!” Tony called after their receding backs.

Steve rubbed his temples.

This was going to be a long trip.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve would rather be eating tapas.

If he’d thought New York was hot, then Barcelona was a blazing inferno.

It was downright hellish. He was wearing nothing but an undignified pair of shorts and a sweat-soaked wifebeater and he was starting to miss the Arctic Ocean. It didn’t help that the man he was tailing, Pedro Cortes, lived an annoyingly active life, and Steve had to haul ass all around the city to keep up with him. At night – every night, without fail – the man would visit an impressive number of nightclubs, especially considering his age, beer gut, and hair-to-bald-spot-ratio. As a super soldier, Steve supposedly didn’t need as much sleep as normal people, but he still found himself wishing the guy would take a nap or something.

Cortes didn’t seem to have a job, in the traditional sense, which was an immediate red flag. Lots of free time to participate in nefarious HYDRA-related activities. But so far, Cortes was clean. No evil deeds, and no Bucky – no one at all – trying to kill him. He wasn’t the only one, either. None of the other potential targets Natasha had identified had seen any action, either. In fact, three weeks after Handler’s assassination, no one else had turned up dead at all – at least, not in a way that fit the pattern.

At the moment, Cortes was in a café on a date. It had been going on for a while now, and, while Cortes seemed to be having the time of his life, the same could not be said for his lady friend. Steve sighed, adjusted his sunglasses, and took a sip of his iced coffee.

Cortes leaned forward and his hand disappeared under the table, presumably to grope his date’s thigh. She flinched a little and edged away. Steve shifted uncomfortably. On the one hand, it was wrong for any man to treat a woman that way when she clearly didn’t like it. On the other, it was frankly shocking that Steve hadn’t been noticed thus far, and getting involved would almost certainly mean a blown cover.

He was distracted from his internal struggles by the sound of his ringtone. He fished his cell phone out of the backpack hanging off the back of his chair and pressed the green icon to pick up.

“Steve! Buddy!” it was Clint, sounding out of breath.

“Clint? What’s going on, are you ok?”

“Um, well, yes, I am fine,” there was a muffled smacking sound on the other end, and a string of expletives. “Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for my, er, charge.”

Steve sucked in a breath. “What happened? Is she dead? Is there – did you see who did it?”

“Yeah, she’s definitely dead. At least, I mean, I know that I, personally, couldn’t survive if a metal rod skewered my skull, but I can’t speak for Miss Bernard - ”

“Clint! Can you please give me some information I can work with?”

“Right, sorry. Well, whoever killed her is good. I didn’t see him until the last second, and you know me – eyes of a hawk. It’s in the name.”

“Him?” Steve’s grip tightened on the plastic of the coffee cup. “Clint, did you ID the assassin?”

“I can’t confirm anything,” said Clint in a measured voice – or at least, as measured as he could, seeing as he sounded like he was doing wind sprints. “I’m actually in pursuit at the moment. But I can say, definitely, that they are very fast, very strong, and _scary_ good. And I would guess that they’re coming your way next, so be on alert.”

“What? How do you know?” Steve asked. There was a delay in response as Clint shouted in what seemed like a mixture of exasperation and pain. Steve had to pull the phone away from his ear as the sound of some kind of crunch became potentially deafening. “Clint! Talk to me!”

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” said Clint breathlessly. “Just – he got away.”

Steve glanced up at Cortes, who was still busy feeling up his uncomfortable companion, and swore. “You said you think my guy’s next?”

“Yeah. I can’t be sure, but, well, I split open his bag with an arrow and a Spanish phrasebook fell out. Is that too much?” Clint panted.

Steve groaned. “Okay, well – get yourself together and get over here. Spanish phrasebook seems a little… convenient, but you might as well back me up anyway.”

“Okay,” said Clint. “Sure, I’ll be on the next flight. Or maybe Stark will let me use the private jet again.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” Steve said. “Call Nat, too, and let her know the situation.”

“You got it, Cap,” said Clint, and he hung up.

Cortes’ date was desperately flagging down a waitress. Steve’s Spanish wasn’t exactly great, but he could understand that she was asking for the check. When the waitress returned, the woman refused Cortes’ offer to pay for their coffees and high-tailed it out of there.

Cortes sat dejectedly at the table for another five minutes or so, then slumped out the door. Steve waited for him to leave the building before gathering up his things and following.

It was midmorning and the sun reflected its heat off the pavement, creating the sense that when you walked outside, you were walking into a furnace. Cortes had a car, of course, but Steve had to flag down a taxi and awkwardly give the driver directions based on the tracker he’d planted under Cortes’ hood. It was especially annoying since Tony had coded the app that allowed him to see the tracker’s movements and every time the driver took a wrong turn or missed a light, bright red letters flashed on the screen screaming ‘YA DONE GOOFED’.

The tracker took him to an office building not too far away. Steve quickly doled out twenty euros to the taxi driver and thanked him, then got to scoping the building out. The tracker told him what floor and even which room Cortes was in – a nifty feature, even if Steve would never admit that out loud, at least not to Tony – so Steve entered a neighboring building, feigned an appointment, and rode the elevator all the way to the top. He then broke into the service stairway and took it up to the roof where, with the help of a pair of high-tech binoculars, he would be able to get a relatively clear view of Cortes – or at least, about half of the room he was in.

He settled on the roof for the long haul. Cortes had come here before, and he’d never stayed for less than a couple hours. The first time, Steve had sat on the scorching roof hating his life, but this time he’d come prepared with a little pillow for his elbows, a jug of water frozen the night before and a small tub of trail mix. Emasculating? Maybe, but he was past caring about things like that.

Cortes didn’t disappoint. Steve thought he must be ranting about something, because he flitted in and out of view from the window, waving his arms and stomping around. Steve never saw the other person in the room – at this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if there _weren’t_ someone else in the room. Maybe Cortes was therapeutically bitching into thin air. Sometimes Steve felt that urge, too, so it was hard to judge.

After about an hour of frying in the sun as his charge paced, Steve abandoned the binoculars long enough to stretch, reapply sunscreen, and turn some music on. It came out of his phone sounding tinny and unnatural, and he didn’t want to play it too loudly just in case, but the sound was soothing. It wasn’t fun stewing in his own thoughts with no distraction, especially when his thoughts tended to be an endless tirade of _where’s Bucky?/Where’s Bruce?/Is Bucky okay?/How can I keep Tony from getting arrested?/I hope Bucky’s okay/What the hell is quinoa anyway?_

He popped a cashew in his mouth, and then an M&M. Checked for text messages, saw none. Turned his attention back to Cortes. Nothing new or interesting there. Ate another cashew, washed it down with an almond.

Behind him, the roof access door opened on squealing.

Steve cursed inwardly and pulled a fancy-looking camera out of his backpack, ready to pull the clueless tourist routine. _I just wanted an artsy photo of downtown Barcelona’s business district from the sky, I swear!_

“Hi, I’m sorry, uh, lo siento, I was just - ” he stopped. The person who had emerged from the door didn’t look like an office employee. He was dressed in bulky black gear, with a balaclava concealing his face, a large briefcase, and several suspiciously weapon-shaped bulges in his clothing.

For a moment, they were both frozen. Then the intruder pulled out a gun.

Steve rolled to the side abruptly and scrambled to his feet just as a bullet ripped through his elbow-pillow. He charged forward at his attacker, but was forced to weave and duck as Balaclava emptied a clip in his direction.

The gun clicked empty and Steve lunged, tackling Balaclava to the ground. A brief struggle ensued, but Steve was undeniably stronger and soon managed to pin Balaclava’s hands behind his back.

This was certainly not Bucky.

“Who the hell are - ” he began, but was cut off by a sudden explosion of white-hot pain. He was momentarily unaware of his surroundings, his attacker, even his own body. He came to twitching, with a ringing in his ears, to see Balaclava putting the finishing touches on the assembly of a sniper rifle he had apparently procured from the briefcase.

Steve let out a pained roar and forced himself to his feet. He couldn’t feel any injury, but whatever Balaclava had hit him with left him shaky, muffled, and dizzy. He forced his way forwards as Balaclava peered into the scope, adjusted, squeezed the trigger –

Steve threw himself bodily onto Balaclava, but the gun went off anyway. There were some screams from the streets below, the sound of skidding rubber and honking horns. Balaclava pulled a knife from somewhere in his clothes and stuck it firmly in Steve’s right armpit. Instinctively, Steve’s hands sprang open and Balaclava scrambled away, abandoning his gun and making a break for the stairs. Steve spared a moment to jam his binoculars to his eyes and check on Cortes and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the bullet had gone wide. It had gone through Cortes’ window, but far to the left, and Cortes himself was pressed against the glass, ogling, eyes wide and mouth gaping.

Steve dropped the binoculars, grabbed his phone, and went after Balaclava.

Balaclava had made it down the service stairs but left a trail of destruction in his wake. Steve sprinted through the hallways, following the breadcrumbs of frightened looking secretaries and spilled file folders until he reached –

God damn it. Who used a zip line for a getaway in _real life_?

Steve swore (again) and made his way to the stairwell – the elevator was simply too slow. He even bypassed the stairs in favor of jumping from guardrail to guardrail until he reached the ground floor.

It was efficiency, really.

He tore out of the lobby and out onto the street, whipping out his phone and dialing Clint’s number as he went.

“Clint Farton, what can I do you for?” it wasn’t Clint at all, but Natasha.

“Nat! I’ve found the guy, I’m in pursuit!” he barked.

“What? That’s impossible. Clint got his ass whooped like… two hours ago.”

“It’s not Bucky – there’s probably more than one assassin,” he said. A street over, Balaclava exploded out of a door and into a conspicuous black van. “Listen, I’m kind of busy, I’m going to have to call you back.”

“Steve, you need to - ” he hung up, shoving the phone into his back pocket.

The van rocketed into traffic, but Steve wasn’t far behind. He picked up the pace, dodging honking cars and pedestrians, and managed to catch up to the van as it picked its way through the congestion. He threw himself forward and landed on the back of the van. 

The driver swerved and slammed on the brakes in an attempt to shake him off, but Steve held on tight, and climbed forward. Apparently giving up, the driver proceeded with rocketing forward. The jerk of turning a corner almost bucked him into the street, pain blazing from where Balaclava had stabbed him.

He made his way to the window and slammed a fist against the glass. It only cracked, at first, but the second blow sent his hand straight through. Unfortunately, the modern technology that was tempered glass meant that it didn’t shatter, but as he groped around he felt a shoulder and –

He jerked to the side as bullets riddled the top of the car. They missed him, thankfully, but he really needed to get inside that car. He switched tactics, let go of the driver’s shoulder, and blindly felt around for the door’s lock. Something slammed into his hand and a gun went off again, this time hitting his exposed bicep. He hissed in pain and withdrew his hand from inside the window, but not before pressing every button he could feel on the inside of the car.

Steve hadn’t been a religious man for a very long time, but he prayed as he grasped the car door handle and tugged.

It swung open. He immediately released his grip on the top of the car and rolled over, curling into a ball so he could fit through the door.

The moment he entered the vehicle, there was a gun in his face. He swatted it away and it went off, putting a hole through the windshield. He grabbed the wrist that held the gun and twisted until Balaclava gave a strangled cry and his hand popped open. Realizing that he was essentially sitting on the driver’s – a burly, mean-looking ginger – lap, Steve slammed backwards, grabbed him by the shoulders, and tossed him bodily out of the car. Balaclava reached over to grab the steering wheel and Steve slammed his foot down on the accelerator. He pointed the liberated gun at Balaclava’s still-hidden face.

“Who the hell are you?” he spat. “And what do you want with Cortes?”

Balaclava didn’t answer, just cocked his head in a challenge. Steve took a sharp turn into what looked like some sort of port and pulled the car to a stop.

“Get out of the car,” he said coldly. Balaclava stared at him for several long seconds, then obliged. Steve kept the gun trained on him as they both climbed back into the muggy air.

“Are you HYDRA?” he asked. Balaclava remained silent. “Answer me!”

Still no reply. Steve surged forward angrily and grabbed Balaclava by the front of his shirt, holding the gun to his neck. “You need to tell me right now exactly who it is you are and what it is you want. And if you don’t, well, I don’t have my shield with me and I swear to God, I will pull the trigger.”

“Do it, Captain,” said Balaclava in a voice that was distinctively not masculine, and Steve thought, vaguely familiar. “I dare you.”

Steve glared. They both knew they couldn’t shoot – well, her – when she was his only source of information. Shouldn’t have gotten rid of the driver.

He spun her around and slammed her against the car, twisting her arms behind her back painfully. He held her there with one hand as he tugged his belt off and began to tie her wrists together. Then he pulled her back around and yanked the balaclava off her head.

“Hello, Tom,” either Rebecca Hall was grinning wildly at him or she had an identical twin they’d somehow missed. “Have you solved the case yet?”

Steve pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed Natasha. She picked up immediately.

“Steve - ”

“Nat, I’ve got her in custody. It’s Rebecca Hall, the girl from before, she was lying the whole time - ”

“I got away from you before. What makes you think I can’t do it again?” ‘Rebecca’ was still smiling a twisted, freaky smile. She laughed a little – a laugh which was disturbingly close to a cackle – and then… hocked a loogie.

The searing, white pain from before returned, blossoming from where her spit collided with his shoulder. He was, for a few moments, unaware of anything but the pure agony. It was, apparently, enough time for Rebecca, because as he came to, he felt the sharp snap of a kick to his chest and stumbled backwards, stumbled until there was nothing to stumble over, and then he was falling.

He splashed into the dirty Spanish Mediterranean. His limbs flailed, they wouldn’t move the way his brain wanted them to, and two bullets cut through the water dangerously close to his head –

Three more shots rang out as he regained his bearings and broke the surface, gagging on the salt water that stung his arm wounds. The dock was too far up for him to see over, but there was silence beyond it. He swam to the edge and gripped the edge, pulling himself over, wincing in pain at the strain on the stab- and bullet holes in each of his arms.

The first thing he saw as he dragged himself onto the dock was Rebecca Hall with a bullet in each of her legs and one in her shoulder, on the ground breathing rapidly, face screwed up in agony.

“Idiot,” came a rasping voice from above her.

Steve recognized that voice. He’d heard it, over and over, in his dreams every night for months. Years, even.

Standing over him, looking haggard and unkempt, was the Winter Soldier.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam was beginning to believe that his mark was about as innocent as a hyena in a room full of baby lions. Maybe he was also spending too much time with his Lion King-obsessed nephews.

Lucinda Friedlander went to work every day at her company, a place called Starbright Enterprises. Apart from sounding like it came straight out of an episode of My Tiny Horse, or whatever that show was called, it also didn’t appear to exist in any legitimate manner. It was 2015, the digital age, but Starbright Enterprises had no presence on the web.

Lucinda also didn’t appear to have much of a social life. She spent pretty much the entire day at work, and then went home, ate dinner, and slept. Sam would peg this as suspicious behavior in and of itself, but then again, when he wasn’t out hunting crazed metal-armed, male-model assassins, he wasn’t exactly getting out much, so he couldn’t really judge.

Stark had provided them with some surveillance technology, so he spent most of his time camped out in his car outside of wherever Lucinda happened to be, listening to her activities via a bug which he had planted in a frumpy pale pink sweater she wore depressingly often.

As far as he could tell, Starbright Enterprises was supposed to be some sort of bioengineering firm. She and her colleagues talked a lot about mitochondrial DNA and macrophages and RNA synthase and a bunch of other things which he probably couldn’t spell and went way over his head. None of it seemed particularly malicious, though. He was no expert, but he was pretty sure he would be able to tell if they were plotting to create a clone army or resynthesize the super soldier serum. He figured there would be a lot more diabolical plotting and maniacal laughter.

He sat in his car, eating an everything bagel with garlic shmear and listening attentively to Lucinda’s conversations. Another day, another intense conversation about pancreatic lipase. 

“…keep looking over the data from the mouse trials. They didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. I don’t think Whiskers is going to make it, which is sad because I liked Whiskers,” someone was saying.

“I told you not to name them, dumbass. Now you’ve gone and gotten attached,” said someone else.

“Of course,” said Lucinda. “I’ve got to go take a bathroom break, but I’ll get right on it afterwards.”

He heard the sound a chair scraping back, a door opening, heels clicking down the hallway. When he heard her enter what he assumed to be the bathroom, he reached over to turn down the volume. He might be stalking this woman and listening in on her every conversation, but hearing her tinkle was a little extreme even for him.

Before he had a chance to turn the knob, he heard a shuffling, and then Lucinda’s voice, clearer than he’d ever heard it, as if she was holding the microphone right up to her lips.

“I know you’re following me. I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know what you want, but I have something I think you’ll like to see. Meet me outside this building at 11PM tonight.”

Sam was still for a long moment as the words filtered through his mind. He was clearly not as good at staking out as he thought he was.

He pulled out his phone and dialed Natasha. She picked up after one ring.

“What?” she said gruffly.

“My mark just made contact with me,” he said without preamble.

“Are you serious, Wilson?” Nat scoffed.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m terrible, but just listen,” he glanced out the window. “She wants me to meet her. She says she has something to show me.”

“Yeah, a gun, you idiot. And when she shoves it up your ass and shoots through your brain, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Wow, someone’s in a bad mood,” Sam raised his eyebrows. “Seriously though, what if she actually wants to show me something? She sounded a little spooked.”

“Do what you want, I don’t care,” he could practically hear her scowl through the phone. “It’s Rogers’ op anyway. You’re a big boy, just make sure you bring plenty of firepower.”

“Great. Okay.”

“Wait, hold on. What time does she say she wants to meet you?”

“Eleven PM tonight.”

“I’m going to call Wanda and get her to come with you. I think Steve might be a little upset if you died,” Nat said. “Her mark is even more boring than the rest of ours’, so I think she can spare a couple hours.”

“Awesome, you’re the best!”

“Don’t die.”

“Bye!” he hung up the phone and leaned back in his seat.

Seven PM came and went and Starbright officially closed. There were a couple stragglers left in the building working late, but they cleared out by eight thirty. Even Lucinda left on time. He tailed her home then tailed her back at around ten. She disappeared into the building.

At about ten forty five he was startled out of a game of Tetris by a sharp rapping on his window. Wanda stood outside, arms crossed, wind blowing her hair every which way. He unlocked the car doors and she slid into the passenger’s seat.

“Did Natasha fill you in?” he asked. She nodded.

“I think you should hang back, I don’t want to freak her out by introducing someone new to the situation.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve made contact with her already?”

“No.”

“So how will she know there was only you? She shouldn’t be suspicious that we work in pairs,” Wanda said.

“Right. She doesn’t know there’s two of us, which is perfect for when she tries to kill me and you jump out of the bushes and save my life.”

“I won’t let you go into the building alone,” she shook her head. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Okay, so follow us in there. Just be sneaky about it. If it’s too hard I’ll just call you out.”

Wanda narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, but nodded. She exited the car and stepped over to the building to situate herself behind the corner.

A couple minutes later, the building’s front door swung open and Lucinda appeared in the entryway. She didn’t make any move to emerge into the cooling night air, eyes darting around from shadow to shadow nervously. Sam gathered himself and hopped out of the car.

“Ms. Friedlander,” he called. She started a little.

“Are you him? Are you the one who’s been stalking me?” she swallowed and shuffled backwards a few steps.

“Would you believe me if I said it was for your own protection?”

She considered the question for a moment, then appeared to decide it wasn’t worth an answer. “Do you work for SHIELD?”

“SHIELD is over.”

She shook her head. “I’m not stupid. SHIELD will never go away, it’s like a damn weed. You look familiar, though.”

Sam huffed. He was no Tony Stark, but following the incident in Sokovia, he had experienced some air time, much to his mother’s excitement. She called him every time his picture was on the news, even if it was for less time than it took to say 'Ultron'. “Must just have one of those faces.”

“I guess you don’t have any reason to be honest with me,” she said, moving aside to let him into the building. “But if you’re HYDRA you might as well just kill me right now because I’m about to be a serious traitor to the cause.”

He frowned and stepped inside. “Why risk it? I could be anyone.”

“I don’t know who else to go to,” she admitted, letting the door shut behind them. “All of my coworkers are HYDRA affiliates. There’s someone watching all of us, all the time. I thought you were a new one for a while, but your style is totally different. No offense, but you’re a pretty terrible stalker.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment, actually.”

“I figure, if you’re HYDRA, well, whatever we have cooking up in here is likely to kill me if it gets out anyway,” she pulled out her keycard and let them through several consecutive doors. “I have a duty to my fellow man, and all that.”

Sam was beginning to get a little nervous. He glanced behind him and saw Wanda standing, muscles taut, at the front door. He nodded to put her at ease, but she just narrowed her eyes and tightened her hands into fists.

It was clear now that Lucinda was HYDRA, or at least associated with them directly. It was also clear to him that something had her scared – very scared. Either it was an act and he was walking straight into a trap, or HYDRA was taking things to a whole other level of destruction, one of a magnitude even its employees couldn’t stomach.

The heavy feeling in his gut only increased as she keyed them through yet another door, which led to a set of stairs, which led to a dank basement hallway, which led to another door, this one visibly heavier than the others. The final door required not only her keycard, but her retina scan, thumbprint, and a voice passcode.

The door slid open with a low hiss and Lucinda stepped through, hesitating a moment at the room’s threshold. She glanced over her shoulder.

“Don’t touch anything.”

There wasn’t much to touch. The room was medium-sized, and the walls were bare. It was chilly, almost like being in a refrigerator. The only item of consequence he could see was a refrigerator set on a table in the back.

Lucinda crossed to the table and pulled a pair of gloves from her pocket. She opened the refrigerator and reached inside, producing a relatively small vial and hold it gingerly out in front of her.

“This is going to sound a little bit strange, but trust me, it’s safe while it’s in a container like this - ”

She was interrupted by a dull boom and the sound of gunshots coming from up above.

“Shit,” Sam swore. “Wanda - ”

“Oh God,” Lucinda had turned pale. She froze for a moment, then seemed to come to a snap decision. She shoved the vial at Sam. “Take it. You have to take it.”

“What?!”

“Take it and leave! Get it out of here!” Her eyes were wild, begging. Sam was beginning to be very worried about the contents of that vial. He took it, and grabbed her arm.

“We’re getting out of here.”

He dragged her up the stairs by the arm. “Open the doors!”

Fumbling with her key card, she obliged, letting them out. As they emerged into the main foyer, bullets hailed down in their direction. Sam threw himself bodily at Lucinda, shoving them both behind the desk.

He could hear the sounds of Wanda blasting at enemies and pulled out his own gun.

“Stay down,” he ordered, and peered out from behind the desk to fire. All he got in response was a choked gurgle. Alarmed, he look back over and immediately dropped his gun. "Hey, hey, it's okay."

It wasn't okay. There was a hole at the base of her neck, and even as he shoved his hands into the wound, pressing down hard, he knew that there was no way anyone could survive a shot like that. He swore. 

Her lips moved and her throat clicked, like she was trying to say something.

"Hey, its okay, sshh..." she grabbed at his wrist wildly, her eyes open alarmingly wide, gripped by panic. She mouthed something, and he realized she was saying it over an over, trying to get him to understand. "What is it? What is it?"

She tried to take a breath and her entire body shuddered, but she was able to muster enough energy to try one more time. He stared at her lips intently.

_You have to get rid of it._


End file.
